


tried to buy your pretty heart (but the price too high)

by blanchtt



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018), Two Weeks Notice (2002)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-22 09:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: “There’s a woman protesting the demolition outside, Ms. Miller.”





	tried to buy your pretty heart (but the price too high)

**Author's Note:**

> A short little prompt.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s easy enough to buy up New York real estate with a last name like Miller.

 

Some of it’s her own work, _hard_ work following her mother in the family business of playing people and companies and cities off each other and profiting. The other half she has to acquiesce and concede is because of her father, may the bastard rest in peace, because you don’t get some of the deals she’s gotten playing nice. Or legal.

 

She’s sitting bored in meeting with her CFO and CEO, barely paying attention as the two men argue over quarter profits and what to do with them and wondering if another Bugatti is something she really needs when her secretary knocks at the door.

 

It’s a sound that stops the two men in the tracks because when Lou Miller’s door is closed it’s closed for a reason, and usually a reason not many people dare to interrupt.

 

“Yes,” Lou calls out at the sound, and her secretary slips into the room, closes the door behind herself. That’s when Lou shifts and sits up a little straight and motions at her CFO and CEO to hush about the interruption, puts down the cellphone in her hand face-down on the table, Bugatti models forgotten.

 

“There’s a woman protesting the demolition outside, Ms. Miller.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“Deborah Ocean, esquire,” Lou says. She’s standing in one of the best corner office besides hers, watches Debbie take in the sight, the desk, the marble and leather glass that just money can’t buy. “We can even get you a nameplate saying just that. You’d be helping me preserve historical New York architecture. And you’d be working in this office. Where did you say you went to law school, again?”

 

“Fancy,” Debbie concedes, a hand tracing over the dark grain of the desk, and Lou smiles, knows she’s won. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer—preferably close enough to make sure she’s not chaining herself to construction equipment that could easily turn into a PR disaster. “It was Harvard, for the record.”

 

Fucking _perfect_.

 

“Just think about it,” Lou offers, that last little nudge that puts the ball in Debbie’s court except that it doesn’t, really, because the whole stadium is Lou’s, and she’s so close, so, so close she can taste it. Goodbye, Coney Island community whatever. Hello, new and gleaming high-priced condos for the rich and famous.

 

Except Debbie is a certified pain in her ass, and the other woman turns and asks confidently, “It’ll be in my contract that you won’t touch the community center, correct?”

 

“Correct,” Lou says, smiles and keeps her voice level and holds out a hand toward the open door, the way they just came in. “I promise to save your community center. On top of which, you can direct our pro bono efforts.” At that, Debbie’s poker face slips a little, and Lou pushes where she sees a week spot. “That's millions at your charitable disposal. Follow me to my office and we’ll have it written right up, if you’d like.”

 

Debbie hardly has to think, doesn’t hold out her hand and only smiles politely as she walks out of her future office ahead of Lou.

 

“Deal.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“I've been over the Environmental Impact Reports for your new condos,” Debbie says, opening the door and walking into her office without a care for the status quo, and Lou feels her stomach turn because it. The report, not the status quo.

 

She’d discussed it with her mother, had known and had been absolutely reamed by her—she had to get a real chief counsel instead of a hot young thing with a degree from somewhere online. She’s rich, but not right enough to drive her company into the ground over sex. But who knew a Harvard grad would work quite so hard to make her life so much more difficult?

 

“I really wanted to ask you, which one of these do you prefer?” Lou says instead, holds up two pieces of stationary, and Debbie stops in her tracks, report held in her hand.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“It's for my new personalized stationery,” Lou says.

 

“Is this a trick question?” Debbie asks, a brow raised. “They look exactly the same to me.”

 

“No, not at all. This is a linen finish,” Lou says, holding out first one paper, and then the other. “And this is a watermarked vellum finish.”

 

“Leaving aside the fact that they've taken perfectly good forests and denuded them in order to produce this nonrecyclable paper, I would say it was…” Debbie says thoughtfully, trailing off. She slips her own report under her arm, takes both, and tosses both in the trash bin next to Lou’s desk. “The linen. It’s heavier and falls better,” Debbie concludes, looking pleased with herself. “Read the report.”

 

It’s then, Lou realizes, that she has never felt less sure footed in her own office. Not in a bad way, though. Almost as if she’s caught a tiger by the tail and hasn’t the faintest clue what to do about it. It’s fairly exciting.

 

“Do you know, I've asked and you're the only one to come up with that answer,” Lou ribs, leaning forward, elbows on her desk. “My God, you're good. I'm getting you a bigger office.”

 

“Read it,” Debbie asks, holding out her report, and Lou takes it, reaches up and salutes with two fingers with her free hand.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                               

-

 

 

 

 

 

The high doesn’t last long.

 

The job comes, of course, with a fancy, new-fangled cell phone that Debbie doesn’t seem fazed by, and Lou has to wonder as Debbie flips it open and inspects it what exactly a woman like Debbie gets out of playing defender-of-the-poor-and-downtrodden when she is clearly neither poor nor downtrodden. The classily understated but clearly designer head-to-toe wardrobe says otherwise.

 

Despite Debbie’s work ethics, there are bumps in the road that do not manage to smooth out, Lou admits as she hears the front door open and Debbie stomp in, and Debbie _certainly_ does not look amused when she comes to a stop in Lou’s enormous walk-in closet.

 

“The teal or the plum?” Lou asks, hangers on her hand and crisp button-ups held out, and Debbie’s bottom lip quivers. If she weren’t so good at keeping her face straight, Lou’s sure her mouth would drop open. “I'm judging the Miss New York contest in under an hour. What do you think?”

 

“I cannot believe you called me out of a wedding to pick a shirt,” Debbie says, each word dangerously enunciated, although Lou’s not quite sure why she’s surprised since it’s a fairly regular occurrence. Perhaps it’s because the last time it happened she’d promised she’s stop, Lou remembers with a sinking feeling.

 

“But you’re good at it,” Lou says, because it’s true.

 

(They’d had a quick drink in her living room, just enough to dull their pre-luncheon speech nerves, and Debbie had reached out, tugged at the lapels of her shirt, and then shook her head.

 

“The cream-colored one would go better. Go change.”)

 

“I quit,” Debbie says, eyes hard, and Lou watches her walk away.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She wears the teal shirt, one of her favorite colors, but it doesn’t cheer her up and neither, surprisingly, does judging the parade of women in swimsuits in front of her.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“Miller,” Debbie says, hands flat on Lou’s desk as she looks down on her, and is it wrong to find it hot that she’s so very angry? Not outwardly, because the word is only a quiet threat, normally spoken to anyone overhearing it, but at this point in their professional relationship Lou can tell. No one’s ever had the gall to all her _just_ Miller. “You’ve been calling around.”

 

She should have gotten stupid drunk last night, woken up with a Miss New York contestant or two in her bed this morning. She should have slept until ten and taken her time in a nice warm shower and come in at noon to work and get around to what she’d left on her desk the day before.

 

What she did was go home after the contest and after an unsatisfactory drink sleep quite restlessly, acutely aware of being alone in bed, and then wake up at five to read Debbie’s report before getting ready for work. Her secretary had balked and almost spilled her coffee in surprise as she’d walked into the office at seven.

 

“I have,” Lou admits finally, and yes, it’s shady. She doesn’t have any problem with shady. But now Debbie’s brow furrows, lips pursed, and she’s looking down at her like she’s an unpleasant looking bug Debbie would like to step on which no one has ever done, and Lou feels something in herself wither under Debbie’s stare.

 

“I’ll cut it out,” Lou says, cutting off whatever Debbie’s about to say. “It would be a real disappointment to see you go. I mean that sincerely.” Because it’s true, just like her mother had chastised her about, that she had lost the West Side waterfront deal because her previous chief counsel had forgotten to file an Environmental Impact Report. “Please, just help me find an assistant first?” Lou offers, and this time the stadium is all Debbie’s.

 

“Two weeks,” Debbie says after a moment’s thought, and turns on her heels. “That’s it.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Her schedule is absolutely packed with end of the quarter meetings and visits to various construction sites, and so she emails Debbie, asks if it suits her to meet at Le Bernadin on her way back downtown.

 

She’s there before Debbie and so Lou motions at the seat in front of her as she catches sight of Debbie walking in, grateful when Debbie takes it without complaint, sits and gets a dossier out of her purse and hands it to her.

 

“No. No. No. Absolutely not. No,” Lou says, eyes flicking over the resumes in front of her as she turns the pages over and runs through them quickly. She places them back in the dossier and hands the whole thing back, watches Debbie’s mouth fall open again. “None of these are the right fit.”

 

“You barely looked at them,” Debbie says incredulously, because no doubt she’s put in as much work as she has with everything else that Lou’s tasked her with, but for this Lou says _ah_ , holds up a hand.

 

“I know what I’m looking for, Miss Ocean.” Just as much as she’d seen Debbie was a catch in terms of chief counsel despite her politics, so she can see that none of these other attorneys even come close to touching Debbie’s work ethic and personality. “Much as you might like to think, I didn’t get here by being dumb and pretty.”

 

“Just pretty, then?” Debbie asks, smirking—it’s supposed to be sarcastic, part of an insult, Lou tells herself at the tug at her heart, puts a lid on that _immediately_ and only smiles back and raises a drink in toast to that verbal sparring match.

 

“Might as well stay for lunch since you’re already here,” Lou offers as a waitress sidles up to their table, pen and pad of paper prepped to take orders, and shoos that tug away against when Debbie accepts.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“Six more days until you’re free of me,” Lou says, fakes sounding mournful as much as someone actually mournful can without giving herself away, and turns away from her closet, holds up two shirts, hanger in each hand. “Cheetah print or pinstripes?”

 

“Jesus, Lou,” Debbie says, snapping her cellphone shut for the millionth time, and once again Lou does not understand why Debbie is so surprised to find herself here once again for the same reason she called her on Thursday or Monday or last Wednesday.

 

“Cheetah print,” Debbie says flatly, rolls her eyes and slips her phone into her purse and walks away.

 

Lou slips her nightshirt off over her head in the silence Debbie leaves behind, tosses it onto the nearby leather chair and slips on the button-up, does it up and rolls up the sleeves and ruffles her hair and chooses jewelry to match.

 

The entire process takes three minutes, but by the time she’s dressed she’s feeling slightly better, walks out of her bedroom and into her living room and blanks on what to do or say, surprised to still see Debbie there, looking torn as if she’s not sure whether to leave or stay, and in all honestly Lou’s waiting for a slap to the face or the cellphone to be hurled at her head as Debbie sees her, expression unreadable as finally seems to decide and stalks over to her.

 

Maybe Debbie will tell her to go to hell, that’s she’s done, no two weeks. Or maybe Debbie will tell her _get your head out of your closet or you’ll lose the Lynch-Moore deal_. Or maybe Debbie will even tell her something truly devastating, like that Lou is not a good person and that she’ll never figure out why someone like Debbie makes her want to be a better one.

 

But she’s pressed backwards and down blindly onto the couch behind her instead, Debbie’s lips on hers and Debbie’s hand gripping at the back of her neck, desperate as Debbie ends up on top of her, and Lou grins into the kiss, runs on instinct and shifts a leg up and feels it slip between Debbie’s and hears Debbie groan against her lips.

 

“Good choice,” Lou breathes our between kisses, hands slipping under Debbie’s skirt and cradling her ass, and she lets Debbie divest her of her cheetah print button up and push her back down onto the couch when she tries to sit up, hands on her shoulders. “Ladies love cheetah print.”

 

“Shut up, Lou.”

 

It’s said affectionally this time, no venom, and so Lou does.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Just like her mother had explicitly asked her not to do for the same of Miller Realty, she starts a more than professional relationship with her chief counsel.

 

But it’s not really the same pattern as before, because with Debbie it’s less fucking the chief counsel and more like making love to Debbie. Highly irritating at times, always on top of things Debbie Ocean. She’s not sure where along the way she lost that part of her that woke up with a new woman every day, but wherever it is, it can stay there.

 

On Tuesday they have sex post-lunch in the back of her new matte black Bugatti, Debbie over her and her fingers in her, slick and warm as Debbie comes.

 

 _Don’t go,_ she wants to ask as Debbie rests against her chest, catching her breath, but it’s neither the time nor the place.

 

She drops Debbie off at her house, the two of them too disheveled to go back into work without giving the game away, and Debbie leans in over the console of the car, kisses her before slipping out the front seat and waving her fingers goodbye before walking into her building.

 

When she gets home Lou collects her things from her car—her coffee cup, her purse, and the dossier of new attorneys Debbie’s collected.

 

She leaves it all on the kitchen counter, walks over to her room, groans, and falls into bed. She knows her reputation. It is, at times, well-earned. It’s much easier to love ‘em and leave ‘em, but working with Debbie does not allow that.

 

 _You love her_ , Lou thinks, dragging a pillow over her head and hoping just a little bit that she’ll suffocate and spare her from every making the same mistake again. _Dumbass_.

 

“Two days left,” Lou says the next day, can’t help letting that disappointment leach into her words, and Debbie makes a noncommittal noise, hands her the dossier before walking a little more quickly than usual out of her office.

 

“Hire June. I knew her back in law school.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“Hello?”

 

Debbie’s voice is warmer, calmer and darker with sleep, and that little tug is back, playing with Lou’s heart. She’d only heard it once before, when Debbie had stayed over and she’d gotten to sleep with Debbie in her arms.

 

“I’m glad you're up,” Lou says, means it. “I didn't want to wake you. I just felt like a chat.”

 

“Lou, it is two-fifteen in the morning,” Debbie says, sounding a little more awake and like herself amidst the rustle of fabric.

 

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” Lou says, and there’s silence on the other end of the line, long enough so that Lou holds the cellphone away from her ear a moment to see if she’s gotten disconnect. But she holds it up again, hears Debbie sigh.

 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

 

She’d looked up June as Debbie had suggested, had one of her headhunters contact her because whether it hurt or not Debbie’s desk would be empty come Monday. She’d even spoken to her over the phone, had realized in some way that June might be a good fit but after hanging up had had to concede that June was not Debbie.

 

“Don’t leave,” Lou says thickly. And it’s hard to get out, because Lou Miller does not play nice or legal or do feelings. Lou Miller judges swimsuit contests and fucks a new woman every night and buys whatever the fuck she wants. Lou Miller does not care about one card-carrying Greenpeace member chaining herself to a bulldozer.

 

Except Lou Miller does care now.

 

“Goodnight, Lou,” Debbie says, unreadable as always, and all Lou’s left with is a dial tone.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

The change of heart is welcomed, don’t get her wrong, but ill-fucking-timed.

 

“You _ass_ ,” Debbie hisses, poker face abandoned, and this time she does get the cellphone chucked at her head, but Lou dodges it, hears it clatter to the floor behind her and cannot believe her luck and bad timing. “I can’t believe I believed you.”

 

“Debbie,” she calls, because Debbie’s already halfway down the hall and very, very unhappy. “Debbie!”

 

She scrambles up from where she’s sitting, leaving Constance and Nine Ball staring after her for sure, and catches up with Debbie in a few easy lopes, grabs at her wrist and stops in her tracks when Debbie whirls on her, yanks her arm away from her like she’s been burned. The whole situation is probably a perfect example of why she should not give copies of her keys away like candy, but then again, that means they never would have slept together in the first place.

 

“I don’t need this,” Debbie starts acridly, and Lou holds up her hands in defense, the tone stinging. “I can work perfectly fine on my own, especially since your check didn’t bounce. First you schedule the rec center demolition, now you’re setting up a threesome?”

 

Her damn reputation’s come back to bite her in the ass, and if it weren’t such a tense moment Lou would laugh because neither Constance nor Nine Ball are one bit into her. Which on one hand used to be a bit of an insult, but she’s come to terms with it.

 

“Okay, lots of things wrong with that,” Lou starts, and cuts in before Debbie can continue. “Paperwork must have gotten screwed up. I will personally call June right now and tell her her ass is on the line if she doesn’t fix this. Okay?” It gets silence from Debbie, only slightly calmed and maybe not fully believing her, and Lou adds, “And it’s not a threesome, Debs.”

 

“Then why didn’t you tell me about it?” Debbie asks, quiet and accepting that name without a fight, and apparently the night at her apartment—and her Bugatti and her office and everywhere else—hadn’t just been a quick lay. Of course that’s not Debbie’s modus operundi. Debbie is much too classy for that, Lou knows, has always known. Except now instead of Debbie hiding it Lou can see that poker faced Debbie Ocean has _feelings_ , and apparently they’ve just been very, very hurt.

 

“Because we’re smoking,” Lou sighs, and Debbie arches a brow.

 

“So?”

 

“Smoking _weed_ ,” Lou clarifies slowly. “I’m not going to put my dealer on my damn calendar.”

 

“Oh,” Debbie says simply, looking mollified, and Lou takes a chance, leans in, Debbie’s face cradled between her hands.

 

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Lou says, doesn’t mean it one bit as she kisses her, little tug in her heart pulling twice as nice as Debbie kisses her back, arms settling around her waist and pulling her close.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Lou takes the metro like she’s promised, leaves the Bugattis and the chauffeured limos and Uber Blacks out of it and walks to Debbie’s place. It takes a while, but it’s nice in a way. She walks past some condos she constructed in 2003, nods to herself in satisfaction because they’re holding up just find if the fore sale sign outside is any indication.

 

She reaches Debbie’s building, is buzzed in, and it’s confirmed to her as Debbie greets her at the door and kisses her cheek before motioning her in that Deborah Ocean is not a woman without significant wealth, if her flat and the amount of Chinese food she’s ordered for them both is any indication.

 

(The loft itself, an old hardwood thing above a club, would already be making her business side salivate if she weren’t actually so damn hungry.)

 

“You always order this much?” Lou asks, taking a seat at the table and grabbing a plate and chopsticks, and she tries not to make a mess as she grabs a generous helping of ma po tofu and puts it on her plate before adding some low mein, leans her elbows on the table as she takes a bite and watches Debbie sitting back primly.

 

“Only on special occasions,” Debbie admits, smiling before taking a bite of tofu from between her chopsticks, and it’s cheesy as hell, yeah, but Lou shakes her head, hides a smile by taking a bite, too, and doesn’t mind it one bit.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
